THE MISSING ONE 

   Everyone was there at the table. Every supper, every one of us, all of us. We never missed one, not because of the great food, either. My sisters, wisecracking, remarking, took sarcastic conversation and made it into a knife that twisted and twisted without stopping. It was funny and always directed at someone else.

        Mom and Dad laughed too, encouraging us on a subconscious level to try to outdo one another. It was like trying to referee a sword fight. If anyone tried to get in the middle, it was possible to get cut, maybe lose an arm or something important.

        I stare at the empty chair and try not to, the missing place at the table that would have made six. Tears could form in my eyes if I stared too long and let memory carry me on the back of the dark horse into the land of shadows. That land of silence where I  am locked away, unable to touch, see, feel anything.

        Then one day there were four and I had to face my father’s eyes, full of sorrow and hurt and wonder. He tried his best to hide the pain of her leaving us and we knew a part of us had gone with her. No more jokes.

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